phoenix {rising}
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Sunday Morning
<<2004-06-27 - 9:49 p.m.>>

All I know is that the sun was coming up when we stumbled out of the club and into postapocalyptic Kreuzberg. Christopher Street Weekend had decimated the neighborhood. The street had been repaved with bits of glass and paper. When we got in, people were playing guitars and talking around fires they'd built on the sidewalk, people were lying on the pavement, but when we got out there was only us and the deserted, cluttered street and the Döner stands and one bakery opening up and the sun coming up.

Waiting for the S-Bahn, the light going pink, a small crippled black man on crutches asks for my lighter and then tells me he can see into my soul. He takes my hand several times and presses his phone number on me. As tends to be my policy, I promise with wide eyes that I will call. I will not call. I usually don't feel this guilty, though.

And the insurance company won't call my mother back (what a fucking system) and I think about Charlene approximately once per half-hour.

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